


Let Sleeping Bees Lie

by StellaBlythe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, SexuallyExperienced!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaBlythe/pseuds/StellaBlythe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have just arrived back at the flat after attempting to find the serial killer and chasing a cab across London.</p><p>They're out of breath, adrenaline is pumping through their veins, and Sherlock opens up John's eyes in more ways than one.</p><p>This is what would have happened if Lestrade had not been waiting upstairs with his men for a surprise drugs bust.</p><p>No bees were harmed in the making of this fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in John Watson

"That was ridiculous," panted Dr. John Watson. "That was perhaps the most ridiculous thing...I've ever done."

He and Sherlock Holmes had just arrived back at 221B Baker St., exhausted and out of breath from running.

Sherlock looked at John with a wry smile. "And you invaded Afghanistan?"

They both laughed.

John was struck by Sherlock's deep laugh. He realized that since meeting Sherlock the day before, he'd never heard him laugh. Never expected him to laugh. Thought him above laughing.

"It wasn't just me," said John. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock brushed the question off. "They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway," he sniffed.

John laboured to catch his breath. "So what were we doing there?"

Sherlock looked suddenly uncomfortable and cleared his throat. He waved John's question away once again. "Oh...just passing the time...and proving a point."

John stopped breathing for a second. "What point?"

"You," said Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called. "Dr. Watson _will_ take the room upstairs!" Sherlock looked very satisfied with himself.

"Says who?" challenged John.

Sherlock looked John in the eye. "Says the man at the door."

As if on cue, there came a knock at the front door. Sherlock smiled again, still slightly out of breath. John stared at him, and Sherlock's grin became even wider.

Curious, John turned at once to get the door. When he opened it, he saw Angelo, the owner of the small bistro that they had been sitting in before chasing that cab across London. Sherlock had apparently frequented the establishment quite often, and John felt a sudden pique of unexplained annoyance as the thought crossed his mind.

"Sherlock texted me," said Angelo. He held out John's cane. "He said you'd forgot this."

John was astonished. He hadn't given a single thought towards the cane during the entire chase for the cab and afterwards.

He took the cane from Angelo, and looked back inside the hallway at his friend Sherlock. Friend? Yes. Friend. After what they'd been through together in the last 24 hours, he could only be called a friend. Sherlock grinned that wicked grin once more.

John looked back at the man in the doorway. "Ah, thank you." He closed the door on Angelo, and started back towards Sherlock, who was still resting against the wall.

He stopped in front of his friend and saw that Sherlock's breathing was calm now. "You knew even when I didn't," said John.

"I'd be the world's worst consulting detective if I hadn't known. It was glaringly obvious the limp was all in your mind. I told you that within the first three minutes of our meeting," said Sherlock.

John looked at Sherlock's shoes. "Yes. You did. But I..." He looked back up and started to laugh.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock.

"I think I miss it."

"Miss what?"

"My limp," said John. "I'd grown quite attached to it, you know."

Sherlock laughed, surprised, which John assumed didn't happen very often. Sherlock turned to face John fully with his hands in his pockets. The way Sherlock leaned his shoulder against the wall made John's chest tighten a little. He didn't quite know why. Maybe it was just the lactic acid buildup in his muscles after all the exertion of running.

"Well, you nearly earned yourself a genuine limp," said Sherlock. "My calculations were inconclusive in that you would make that jump across the rooftops."

John's heart started beating faster again at the thought. He realized that he liked that feeling. He missed it even more than his limp. He hadn't felt quite like this since he'd been on the battlefield. "I'm capable of surprising the Great Sherlock Holmes, then?"

"Only time in my life that I've been happy with an inconclusive result, John," answered Sherlock.

The smile fell slowly off of John's face, and his own expression turned to one of surprise and maybe a little apprehension. The only time that John had ever witnessed Sherlock Holmes in a state that could be described as 'happy' was when another questionable death surfaced.

"Oh, don't look so thunderstruck, John," said Sherlock impatiently. "You're the closest thing to a friend that I've ever been capable of having. My brother Mycroft would disagree with you, but he's pompous, incorrect and not here right now and there it is."

John blinked. "We're friends then? We've only known each other for a day," he said, completely disregarding for a moment the thoughts he'd just been having concerning being 'friends' with Sherlock. "In that time I've been nearly hit by a car, almost died jumping from a building, investigated a few murders, and three people have assumed I'm your new love interest."

Sherlock looked at John sharply. "None of that bothers me in the slightest. Does it bother you?"

"I should say the fact that I almost died should bother you a little, or maybe we should rethink the definition of the term friendship. Maybe it's too soon," John scoffed. He was blatantly avoiding mention of the 'everyone thinks we're shagging' subject.

"John," said Sherlock, who was distinctly moving closer into John's personal space. John found himself subconsciously backing himself further into the corner by the door. Sherlock took no notice and loomed even closer. The man wouldn't accept anything less than full eye contact.

John swallowed hard before he answered. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smirked. "Why does the idea of people thinking we're together bother you?"

John coughed, he couldn't help it. By God, the man was blunt. And Sherlock was practically pressed up against him now. Sally Donovan's words popped into his head, and he couldn't help thinking that she'd said Sherlock got off on murder.

"It doesn't," croaked John. "I mean, it doesn't," he said in a much clearer and steady voice. "It doesn't bother me."

"Lie."

John stared Sherlock in the eye and stood a little straighter. He was an Army veteran for God's sake. What was he afraid of? That Sherlock was going to kill him? That another man was pressed a little too closely up against him? Ridiculous. John pressed back.

"Why haven't you denied it? Why do you not correct people who think we're together?" asked John. He was nearly nose-to-nose with Sherlock now. Well, he would be if he was a little taller.

Sherlock laughed and pressed his hands into the wall on either side of John's head and said pointedly, "Because it's all _fine_." He stared down at John with that changeable gaze of his. The shadows of the hallway made Sherlock's blue eyes dark.

John would have sworn he stopped breathing when Sherlock removed his right hand from the wall and settled it on John's chest, still staring him in the eye. Yep, completely not breathing.

Sherlock's fingers snaked slowly up to where John's shirt collar emerged from his jumper. He popped the first button.

 _That_ started John's breathing again. Just barely. He reached up and grasped Sherlock's wrist. "What exactly is happening here?" he demanded.

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "What do you think is happening here?"

"Why do you always answer a question with a question?"

"I asked you first."

"No you didn't."

"Answer my question, John." He flicked his eyes quickly down John's body and back up to his eyes again.

John made the sudden transition from fearing for his life to fearing for his virtue. "Sherlock," he said firmly. "I'm not interested in men."

Sherlock backed up a couple of steps and crossed his long arms across his chest. "Lie."

John blinked and sputtered. "It's _not_ a lie! You're ridiculous. I've never once had any small particle of an iota of interest in male attention." He looked at the ground in frustration.

"There," said Sherlock. 'You're lying again. You have a tell."

"A tell?"

"Yes, a tell." Sherlock shook his head and clucked his tongue. "You're a terrible card player, aren't you? No, don't answer that, I know you are."

"Oh?" John asked. He _was_ a terrible card player. Damn Sherlock. "And what is my 'tell'?" He was getting impatient now, and crossed his own arms.

"You look at the ground and squint your left eye slightly when you're lying."

"I'm. Not. LYING," said John, grinding his teeth. He'd had enough of this and forcefully edged past Sherlock to climb the stairs to the flat.

"John," said Sherlock firmly.

John stopped in his tracks without turning around. He didn't understand why Sherlock had this influence over John's inability to say "no" or "piss off" and walk away. He waited.

"Lie to yourself if you must. But you must remember who you're talking to. If the world's most observant man thinks you have an interest in him, you probably do."

John sighed heavily. He couldn't believe the size of the ego that this man was burdened with. No wonder he didn't own any hats, he probably couldn't find any to fit over his giant head.

He was about to turn around and say that very thing to Sherlock, but he heard the man's footsteps approach his back. He felt Sherlock's breath on his ear as he leaned in.

"You're excited by it, John," he said in a low tone. Not a whisper, Sherlock never quite whispered. "You asked me earlier if I _got off_ on murder. I don't. I get off on excitement, any excitement. I loathe being bored. You and I are two very different men, John Watson, but in this we are the same."

John's back stiffened and he turned to face Sherlock. The detective stood there with that same damnable, level, unblinking gaze he always maintained.

"Nothing ever happens to me," said John, echoing the words that he had spoken to his therapist. "I admit it, I do crave excitement. But I prefer the nearly getting blown up or run over kind to the 'fall into bed with a sarcastic male detective' kind."

"So if I wasn't sarcastic, that would make a difference?" smirked Sherlock. "John, you've only spent the last day in my companion and already your powers of deduction have improved."

John frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

Sherlock still hadn't blinked. Good God, the man was like a camel, only storing blinks instead of water. "You have come to the conclusion that I am, indeed, a man. A man with all properly functioning anatomy." He winked and clicked his tongue.

John felt as uncomfortable as he thought he could possibly get. How was it possible that chasing serial killers and examining dead bodies induced less discomfort than discussion of Sherlock's anatomy?

"Right. You keep implying that I have all these interests and feelings. I don't of course. But what if I did? What then?" challenged John. "As far as being a normal man, I never see you look at anyone in any manner other than observationally and scientifically. You look at a dead person the same way as you would a person that's alive." John shook his head and put a hand up in front of him. "Wait, no, that's an exaggeration. You look upon a dead body with even _more_ excitement. We're all like bacteria in a Petri dish to you. Experiments. Sometimes it seems as if you haven't any feelings at all."

As soon as it was out of John's mouth, he wished he could take it back. Sherlock's easy expression dropped as he lowered his eyebrows and wrinkled the top of his nose, then he turned his face away quickly with an impassive gaze.

John closed his eyes and sighed. "Sherlock, I..."

"Dr. Watson," interrupted Sherlock, "thank you for accompanying me in the pursuit for the serial killer, you were of great assistance. If you'll excuse me, I must go up and think on this case some more."

Sherlock turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, mumbling something that sounded like, "...more patches..."

Suddenly something powerful came over John. He couldn't have said what it was. Maybe it was just that they'd been through a reckless and impulsive evening. Chasing a serial murderer for God's sake. Maybe it was just that he couldn't stand the look of coldness on Sherlock's face after he'd finally experienced some warm ones. John might as well add one more reckless and impulsive (and possibly stupid) action to the evening's events.

He ran for the stairs. Sherlock had only ascended halfway up to the landing before John overtook him and barred the way one step above him.

Sherlock's eyes shone darkly in the shadows of the staircase. "What are you doing, Dr. Watson? Get out of my way."

John decided to give Sherlock a little of his own medicine. "What does it look like? You're the detective," retorted John. "And don't call me Dr. Watson. We've been through too much for that already, and friends don't address one another that way."

"Being your 'friend' would imply that I possess feelings," said Sherlock with a slight grimace. "You've already concluded that I lack emotional capability, so therefore I agree that we should rethink the use of that term for our relationship."

John had one hand flat against the wall, and the other gripped tightly upon the banister. Since he was standing one step above Sherlock, he was able to look him straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," said John. "I was a prat. Nearly dying and finding out my injury was all in my head can make a bloke stroppy."

Sherlock sighed and tried to make a move past John. "Apologies are boring. Look, as I said I have a lot of brainwork to do, so if you'll kindly piss off..."

A combination of anger and frustration and something else he couldn't name rose up in John. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his tailored suit coat. "What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock yelled angrily, and then he spoke no more because John's lips were on his.

John's mind was both racing and trying to shut itself down at the same time. He really was doing this. He really was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Or rather, he was pressed up against Sherlock, his lips pressed against Sherlock's lips, and he was afraid to breathe let alone call what they were doing 'kissing'.

He pulled his mouth off of Sherlock's with an audible smack, and they both stood there breathing heavily. Eyes locked. John's hands were still wrapped tightly in Sherlock's coat lapels.

As if Sherlock had read his mind (stupid, of course he read his mind) he said, "Is that your idea of kissing?"

Before John could answer or even think any further, Sherlock whirled him around and reversed their positions. He grabbed John's wrists in both hands and pinned them to the wall on either side of John's head. John struggled a bit, but it was no use trying. For such a lithe looking man, Sherlock had some real strength in holding John to that wall. John was a trained soldier, and it took a lot to keep him restrained.

"I know what you're going to ask," said Sherlock, who held John's wrists even tighter to the plaster. The whole length of his lower body flush against John's. "I had some martial arts training in my youth. Boxing. Fencing. Other training as well. I may not look very formidable, but I'm wiry and tenacious and I know how to wield my physical assets."

"Besides," he continued, "there are other ways to stun and disarm an opponent that are more effective than brute strength."

He leaned in and put his lips over John's, still pinning his arms. Sherlock slowly eased off the pressure on John's wrists as he increased the pressure on John's mouth.

It felt good.

John was so stunned at the feeling that he parted his lips a little. Sherlock regarded this as an invitation, and took full advantage of it. He slipped his tongue into John's mouth...and John let him. And John started kissing him back.

Sherlock let go of John's wrists and dropped his hands to either side of John's neck. His hands were cold, probably from having them up above his head for so long. They started to heat up instantly, most likely on account of the pulse galloping through John's carotid arteries.

John didn't know what to do with his own hands. He knew where to put them when he was kissing a woman. He'd cup her...well, he couldn't do that with Sherlock.

Then John stopped thinking when Sherlock pulled away from his lips and dropped a hot kiss to John's neck.

John became instantly and uncontrollably hard at the sensation of Sherlock's mouth sucking at the sensitive spot right below his jaw line. A moan escaped John's lips before he could stop himself, and raised both hands to grasp Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock lazily ran his tongue up the length of John's neck from the vee of his open shirt collar to his jaw, and ground his pelvis slowly and deliberately into John's increasingly painful erection.

John could feel quite obviously that Sherlock was as hard as he was. They were both breathing heavily.

"We can't continue like this, on the stairs," gasped John.

Sherlock's chest heaved with his laboured breathing. "Why not?"

"Mrs. Hudson..."

"I don't think she'll want to join in, John. Her husband quite put her off men."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Well, I assumed that's what you must have meant, otherwise you'd be implying that you did want to continue in any place other than the stairs," replied Sherlock.

John flushed. He should have easily been able to make a denial. He found that he couldn't.

Stalling for a minute to think, he said, "You said you were married to your work. What if it comes home and finds you in bed with me?"

Sherlock's small smile turned to a grin. He leaned in close to John's right ear. "I may be married to my work, but that doesn't mean that I don't fuck around on it once in awhile."

Sherlock had a habit of emphasizing the final consonant of a word when he wanted to make an important point. When he did this to the 'k' in 'fuck', it was like lightning shot straight into John's cock. He thought it was one of the most erotic sounds he'd ever heard in his life.

And it came from a man.

A sociopathic man.

A sociopathic male detective that he'd only just met yesterday.

John needed to stall for even more time. "So you do swear then? I think that's the first time I've heard you use questionable language. I would have thought it beneath you."

"Really." Sherlock pulled back from John and leaned against the banister. He spread his arms out behind him on the railing. John could see the outline of Sherlock's plainly visible erection through the fabric of his expensive trousers. "Beneath me? So now there are two things that are beneath me, according to Dr. John Watson. Feelings and profanity."

John swallowed. He wondered if Sherlock guessed that he was stalling.

"Some people think that people who swear are too unintelligent and small-minded to employ more imaginative vocabulary," said John.

"Those people can piss off," replied Sherlock. "Quit stalling John. I'm going up to the flat. You can join me and it's probable that neither of us will be bored tonight. Or you can turn around, put your coat back on and go out for Chinese while I wake up my bees."

"Wake up your bees? Where would you keep...never mind. I don't think I want to know," said John, shaking his head.

Sherlock turned and started up the remaining stairs. At the landing, he turned his head back over his shoulder and said, "You might want to adjust yourself if you decide to go out, John. My Homeless Network are always close by, and one of them might claim squatter's rights in that tent of yours."

John was left gaping as Sherlock climbed the rest of the stairs into 221B.

He realized what a right idiot he must look and shut his mouth with a snap. He adjusted himself (damn Sherlock!) and suddenly felt very hot. He shrugged his jumper over his head, and tossed it over the railing.

He rubbed one hand over his hair and looked up at the dark landing that rounded the corner to the flat.

What was Sherlock doing in there now? Was he really waiting for John?

Was he waiting in his bed? Naked?

John laughed at the sudden image that came into his head. No, more likely Sherlock was already stepping into his protective bee suit instead of being patient enough to wait for John to make up his mind.

John looked down at his coat. He looked back up at the landing. He looked towards the front door. His eyes finally settled on the now-unnecessary cane that was leaning up against the wall.

Funny enough, that's what decided it. Sherlock seemed to know John better than he knew himself.

"Well," said John out loud. "That's it then." He started up the stairs.

John reached the top and stood outside the door to their flat. He wondered if it would still be 'their' flat in the morning or if he'd be scouring the newspaper for a new place to live.

He tentatively pushed open the door and stepped inside, not knowing what to expect. He sighed with relief.

Sherlock was not naked upon the rug before the fireplace as he had feared. If this had been the scenario, John might have developed a sudden craving for moo-shu pork and done a runner.

Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, flipping channels on the telly. He had indeed changed clothing and was now clad in a tight, soft grey t-shirt, plaid flannel pyjama bottoms, and a blue silk dressing gown. His long feet were bare, one propped up on the coffee table and the other planted on the floor in front of the sofa.

So far, so good.

John cleared his throat. "No bees then?"

Sherlock paused between channel changes. Some obnoxious talk show queen cackled on the screen. "No. I factored in about 15 minutes of waffling time for you on the stairs before I made other arrangements to fill my evening." He threw the remote into the corner of the sofa and looked at John. "So, I see you've made your decision. And more quickly than I'd calculated. I'm impressed."

John always felt an irresistable urge to fuck with Sherlock when he was being cocky. "How do you know? Maybe I just popped up here to grab something I'd forgotten before going down to the Golden Dragon."

"Improbable. You're a military man that always travels with what he needs and _only_ with what he needs. Wallet? Keys? Phone? You're already carrying those items on your person. The very last item being something that I can absolutely vouch for, considering I was pressed up against it for some time." He grinned that maddening grin. "And if you've decided to reassume your limp, your walking stick is down in the foyer along with your coat and jumper."

Sherlock rose from the sofa and stepped over the coffee table instead of going around it. "Speaking of your jumper," he said as he eyed John, who was now only clad in a rumpled button-down and dark jeans, "that item is the most compelling factor in my conclusions about your final decision."

Despite his better sensibilities, John asked "And why is that?"

"Because," said Sherlock, "the fact that you've removed your jumper means three things. One: You've decided not to go out. It's cold tonight, and you could do with extra warmth against the biting wind if you were to leave. Two: it was a thick jumper, and you stripping it off indicates that I was making you hot and bothered..."

"Ha!" barked John. "Or it could be that I was sweating like a pig because we'd just run from the police-"

"Three," said Sherlock, cutting off John's sentence, "you realized just how stupid that jumper made you look and you didn't want to put me off."

John laughed in surprise. "Bastard! That jumper was expensive!"

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and smiled. "Well, it was doing your admirers a disservice, because the hideous thing was covering up something magnificent that was meant to be seen."

John's face became serious. "You just gave me a compliment."

"I never flatter people. Currying favour is boring. Just stating fact."

John put his hands on his hips, subconsciously mirroring Sherlock. "So," he looked at the floor. "Shall we get to it, then?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Get to it then? Is that how you communicate with women? I'd be surprised if you ever had sex before considering that sort of opening line."

John sputtered and raised his hands in frustration. "That's just it Sherlock! I've slept with plenty of women-"

"Plenty?"

"Enough, ok? It's getting off with a man that I've no clue about!"

" _You're_ a man. What do you do to yourself when you've had a woman leave because you've just asked her if you should 'get to it then'?"

"Damn it, Sherlock! When I....that's different!" John flushed once more.

Sherlock sighed. "Look, John. Sex with a man is quite simple. Hand A gets attached to Cock B, and Cock B fits into Mouth A. Shall I draw you a diagram?" Sherlock stepped forward. "No romance, no flowers, and by God, no cuddling."

John relaxed slightly and a wicked glint formed in his eye. "What if I like to cuddle?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Dear Lord, maybe this is a mistake," he said and made to turn away.

John laughed and grabbed for Sherlock's wrist. He caught hold of it, and cautiously pulled Sherlock back toward him.

Sherlock was grinning again, and John was struck by how happy that grin made him. And surprised by how much it turned him on.

John had been to war. Been shot. Faced death in the eye. He wasn't going to be afraid of this. Even though this action could prove to be far more dangerous than anything else he'd ever done.

John reached up with one hand and grasped the back of Sherlock's head and pulled him down for a kiss. He opened his mouth wide on Sherlock's and penetrated it with his tongue. Sherlock met it with his own, and gave back as good as he got.

It was different kissing a man.

The mechanics were the same. Hot, wet tongues sliding against one another. Teeth gently scraping lips and venturing small, sensual bites.

But John felt like he didn't have to worry as much about hurting the other person. Being too rough. Going too fast. Not having to worry about these things added to the heat of the moment.

They parted for air and Sherlock looked John in the eye while he shrugged off his dressing gown. He tossed the garment aside in a crumpled heap on the floor, panting softly, lips swollen from the kiss. He tilted his head back a little and ran his gaze down John's body and then back up to his eyes. Where Sherlock's eyes had been dark in the shadows of the front hall, now they were a bright, blazing blue. They were a little glazed looking, as if he'd taken some sort of drug.

John supposed that Sherlock was waiting for him to reciprocate. Sherlock had already popped the top button of John's shirt on the stairs, so it was just a matter of unfastening the rest of them without his fingers shaking. He thought he could manage. His hands never shook when he was under stress. And this was about as stressful as it got for John.

John popped his remaining buttons slowly. He couldn't quite look Sherlock in the eye as he did so. Instead he looked at Sherlock's body. It would be different touching him, and not just because of the obvious extra body part. John preferred a soft woman, all curves and supple skin.

Sherlock's skin looked smooth enough, but his body was all angles and sinewy muscle and sharp edges. He was very slim and wiry. Long neck, long arms, long legs, long fingers...Jesus. He wondered what it would be like to have those long fingers wrapped around his hard cock. His cock jumped at the thought and he guessed he'd find out soon enough.

John began to shrug off his shirt and noticed Sherlock staring at his left shoulder.

He felt suddenly self-conscious. The scar from where he'd gotten shot was not a pretty one.

"Look, I know I'm not a candidate for Sexiest Man Alive, I'm sorry." He began to pull the shirt back up over his shoulders.

Sherlock reached out and stopped him. "John, one of the advantages of being naked with another man is that the other man can appreciate what the first man went through to acquire a scar such as that one. Take off the fucking shirt."

John took off the shirt. He didn't have to be told twice.

The shirt joined Sherlock's dressing gown on the floor.

John felt...well, naked. "Ok. Your turn."

Sherlock disregarded John's request and moved toward him. Sherlock reached out with his right hand and touched John's scarred shoulder. "Does it hurt?" asked Sherlock quietly, as he traced the ridges with his long fingers.

John moved his head sharply as he looked into Sherlock's eyes. "No," he said. "I don't feel much of anything there."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?" He moved his middle finger to the place where John's collarbones met. "What about here? Do you feel that?"

John swallowed hard. "Yes."

Sherlock began to slowly trail his finger down the center of John's chest, rolling it over so that his fingernail was making contact with John's skin. John felt a shiver as the edge of the nail scraped lightly (and pleasantly) down his stomach.

Sherlock's finger stopped at the fastened button of John's jeans. He looked into John's eyes. "What about here?"

John's throat was dry. He licked his lips. "I feel it. Definitely no pain," he croaked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said as he again lifted an eyebrow and eyed John below his belt. "That looks pretty painful to me."

John batted Sherlock's fingers away and nodded at the other man's shirt. "Ok, now you then. I won't be the only one standing here half dressed."

Sherlock smirked and palmed the hem of his t-shirt. He crossed his arms and drew it up over his head with a great stretch. He discarded it on the rapidly growing pile of shed clothing and ran his hands over his hair to shake it out. He looked at John, backed up a couple of steps and turned to walk in the direction of his bedroom.

Sherlock's bedroom. He'd not glimpsed the inside of it since moving in. Sherlock kept the door closed at all times.

Sherlock reached the door, turned the knob and disappeared into the shadows inside. He left the door more than a little ajar, and John supposed this was the final invitation.

John wasn't sure he wanted to go inside. Hell, Sherlock kept body parts in the fridge and bees in the....somewhere. What would he have in his bedroom?

"Are you coming, John?" he heard Sherlock ask from within.

The point of no return, thought John. If he entered that room, he'd leave a changed man. He would never be the same. But if 'the same' meant he'd be living the life he'd led since he had gotten home from Afghanistan, than he'd gladly accept the risk.

"I'm getting bored!" called Sherlock.

Sherlock had John pegged. He would do anything that made him feel as though he was alive again. If that meant hunting down criminals and...well, new sexual experiences, so be it. But this would definitely be kept out of the blog.

"You made me take off my shirt, and now I'm freezing," added Sherlock loudly.

John laughed despite himself. He was going to do this. Sherlock thought him afraid.

He would be afraid of _nothing_.

John went to Sherlock's door and slowly pushed it the rest of the way open.

What he saw inside....point of no return, indeed.


	2. A Study in Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John start to get down to business. And learn a little more about each other.

John stood in Sherlock's bedroom doorway and stared.

For all that he was apprehensive about finding in Sherlock's room, he found it didn't matter. All he could see for the moment was Sherlock himself.

This one man filled the entire room without occupying much space at all. 

Sherlock was lying stretched out on his bed. His arms were crossed behind his head and his long legs were crossed at the ankles. He was still wearing his flannel bottoms.

Sherlock hadn't lit a lamp, but John could still see everything perfectly. The room was suffused with ample moonlight. Sherlock's normally pale skin shone brightly luminous. The man seemed to glow from within.

He looked cold and beautiful. Like a marble statue covered in a layer of ice.

"I thought I'd leave them on for a bit," said Sherlock, taking one arm out from behind his head and gesturing at his legs. "You've already left me shivering half-naked. You attended medical school, but one doesn't have to be a doctor to know what would occur if my lower half were to be left out in the cold for too much longer."

John furrowed his brow, pursed his lips and looked towards the ceiling. "Actually, I don't recall 'erectile dysfunction due to prolonged exposure to the elements' as part of the general curriculum, no."

Sherlock's mouth turned up at one end and he breathed a silent laugh through his nose. "They really should think about including it. Much more useful information than this 'solar system' rubbish."

John laughed, but he didn't move from his position at the door. He turned and closed it. No use giving Mrs. Hudson a heart attack if she decided to pop up and surprise them with a cuppa. 

"Well, since your lower half remains all warm and toasty, you won't mind if I take a moment to look around then? It's not every day that someone gets to enter the inner sanctum of Sherlock Holmes." Or was it? He had no idea. He was still stalling.

Sherlock made a languid gesture with his free hand. "Go on if you must. However, you may want to steer clear of the armoire."

John stepped inside the room a little more and peered around into the shadows. Sherlock's room, as far as he could tell in the moonlight, wasn't as frightening a place as John had expected. It smelled of old books, old wood, and the faint smell of tobacco. The room was quite neat and minimalist, in fact.

Furnishings were sparse. Bed, bedside tables, armoire, and a solid looking wooden chest on the floor next to it. A low bookshelf packed with volumes. Nothing except a framed copy of the Periodic Table of the Elements and a couple of generic looking prints adorned the walls. 

There were no photographs of any sort. John found this fact a little bit sad. However, not surprising in the least. 

John tried to visualize someone taking a photograph of a young Sherlock Holmes in school uniform or something, and he found that he couldn't. He couldn't even imagine Sherlock as a child at all. Sherlock must have swept out of his mother's womb grown up and telling people that they were idiots.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Sherlock from the bed. 

"Nothing of importance," answered John.

There was a small pile of clothing near the potentially offending armoire. A policeman's hat sat at the top of the pile. Sherlock had told John earlier that he would often don a simple disguise if he felt it was necessary to obtain information from unwilling parties. John hoped that this _was_ just one of Sherlock's disguises, and not used for other...activities.

He suddenly got another vision in his head. This one he found he could definitely imagine. 

Vividly. 

John felt his face colour, and he was glad for the masking quality of the moonlight. He could feel Sherlock's eyes locked on him as he moved tentatively about the space. The closed door of the room was to the right of the head of the bed. There was a small ensuite bath off to the other side.

"Expecting something different, John?" asked Sherlock.

"Completely," answered John. "Where are all the jars of preserved internal organs? I was hoping for at least one. I must admit that I'm a little disappointed."

"Really. Maybe you should risk the armoire," said Sherlock. He was doing the erotic thing with the 'k' sound again. John's cock seemed to be excited to hear it and immediately started responding. Like Pavlov's dog, thought John with amusement.

John sidestepped the armoire and made his way over to the bookshelf. He heard Sherlock make an exaggerated yawning noise behind him, but he ignored both it and his growing erection for the moment. 

The selections that graced the shelves were mostly textbooks. Some tomes that were entirely in French and German. And one dusty looking manual on the game of golf.

He picked the last of these up and turned to Sherlock. He didn't even have to ask the question, he just raised his eyebrows and held up the book.

"For a case, John. A murder involving a golf club. You can't really see me spending a lazy afternoon on the green, can you?" sighed Sherlock dismissively.

"Absolutely not."

"My choice of reading material can't be that fascinating to you, can it? You wouldn't understand half of it anyway."

John regarded Sherlock with what he hoped was a withering glare and slapped the book back onto the shelf, emphasized by a little puff of dust. "You know, for someone who is half-naked and hoping for some action, you're being sort of a dick, aren't you?"

Sherlock sat up in his bed with a noise of exasperation. "You take everything I say the wrong way, John. You seem more interested in my decor than you do in me. Perhaps I was attempting to coerce you into some angry sex, but maybe the first time is the wrong time for that."

John raised his eyebrows and gave Sherlock a curt nod. "Right. I'm definitely having second thoughts now. Thanks for that."

Sherlock flopped back against the headboard and crossed his arms. "I was attempting to be humorous, but maybe I shouldn't have tried. It's never been my strong point."

"I should say not."

"Captain Watson, if you've completed your white glove inspection of my quarters, I think you should come and get into bed with me. Now." Sherlock agitatedly switched positions once again, lying back partially, propped up on one elbow. "That is, if I haven't completely put you off. And if I have, you should do it anyway."

John took a deep breath. And another. And yet another one.

Any more deep breaths and he'd need a paper bag to breathe into. 

He trod slowly over to Sherlock's bed. John couldn't believe how difficult it was to put one foot in front of the other. After the talking to he gave himself in the hall outside Sherlock's door...it seemed his cock was willing but the feet were weak.

John stopped next to the right-hand side of the bed and bent over to remove his shoes and socks. He sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress. It was firmer than he expected, and he heard it creak as he settled his weight upon it. 

John felt like he was in a film. Each movement like an individual frame of the film. He hoped that it wouldn't turn out to be a really terrible porn film. Or a horror film, for that matter.

He swung his legs up onto the striped coverlet, leaned back and laid his head on the free pillow without looking at Sherlock. He stared straight up and laced his fingers together over his midsection. John knew Sherlock must be getting impatient with his dallying, but the other man remained silent and waited.

It was probably the most patient Sherlock had been since he'd met him.

John was surprised there were two pillows. He wondered if Sherlock had planned all of this. He wouldn't put it past him. Or perhaps having a lover stay the night was more of a frequent occurence than Sherlock let on. 

Or maybe Sherlock just liked a lot of pillows. John wished he could shut off his brain and stop thinking so much.

"So," John asked, as he blinked up at the ceiling. "Do you just sleep with men, or do you sleep with women as well?"

Shit. He didn't realize he meant to ask that until he did it. John felt Sherlock's prone form tense up next to him on the bed.

"Delicate bedside manner you have there, Dr. Watson," said Sherlock tightly.

"That they _did_ teach me in medical school," answered John. He finally risked turning his head to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock held an expression that could only be described as a laser-eyed death stare. John had felt less danger in Afghanistan from a loaded gun being pointed in his face.

"Do you really wish to know?" asked Sherlock.

John thought for a moment. Did he really want to know the answer? "Yes," he said finally. He looked back up towards the ceiling.

"Both," said Sherlock tersely. "And neither."

John sighed deeply. "Just _once_ can you give me a proper answer about anything at all?"

Sherlock hesitated before replying. "I've had many dalliances with both men and women," he said. "Male partners seem to be my preference."

John closed his eyes. "All right. But what about the 'neither' bit?"

John heard the soft rustle of Sherlock moving his hand over his own hair. John noticed he did that a lot when he was frustrated. 

"Because, John, neither gender does any sleeping when they're with me," he heard Sherlock say. "After the sex we go our separate ways."

Sherlock's words were like a punch in the gut. John didn't know how to feel about them. Was he pleased to hear this? Displeased?

He was supposed to continue cohabitating with Sherlock after this, it's not like he _could_ go his separate way. Plus, Sherlock made it sound as though he'd fucked everything that breathed. Or maybe that's just how John chose to interpret it.

Men, women...how many were there? And why did John care? Why?

Maybe he was making a huge mistake. He sat up and made a move to get off the bed and Sherlock caught his wrist in a strong grip. 

"John," said Sherlock quietly. "I think you should know that you're the only person other than myself that has ever been in this bed."

John hesitated. He didn't know why what Sherlock said mattered to him so much...but it did. Which was ridiculous. John was an adult. Sherlock was an adult. He even acted like one at times. What right did John have to be jealous?

The grip Sherlock had on his wrist reminded him of their encounter on the staircase. Reminded him of why he was sitting on Sherlock's bed in the first place.

John settled back down. "Fine. You must have anticipated this to some extent. How were you so sure I'd be agreeable?"

"I wasn't," answered Sherlock. "You could have gone either way with your decision. I was relying partly on the heightened probability that if your sister is gay, than you might also be harbouring some homosexual tendencies."

John blinked at Sherlock. "Studies have never proven that there is any correlation between those two variables."

Sherlock did that annoying tongue click thing he was so fond of. "Listen to the Doctor!" He leaned on his elbow and propped his forehead up on his hand as he looked down at John's body. "No, there isn't any conclusive correlation. It was a long shot. But then there's your fashion sense."

John's eyes widened in indignation. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

"Nothing. You put yourself together well for a heterosexual man." His eyes narrowed and he looked into John's eyes. "Almost too well."

"So I pay attention to what I'm wearing!" John exclaimed. "So do you! With your...posh coats and designer scarves and shirts that look as though they were tailored for an 8-year-old-"

"We're not talking about me right now, John," interrupted Sherlock. "And then there's the most obvious sign that you wouldn't be adverse to joining me in my bedroom."

"Oh?" John crossed his arms over his chest impatiently as he debated leaving yet again.

"Yes. The sizeable erection you sported when I kissed you. You could easily have punched me in the face and I wouldn't have had to bother with the extra pillow."

John laughed incredulously. "Maybe I wanted to punch you in the face and couldn't because you had my arms pinned to the wall?"

Sherlock eyed John shrewdly. "Maybe you didn't want to break my hold badly enough."

Before John could reply, Sherlock reached over and palmed John's cock through his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter than I had anticipated. It was much longer and then I had some issues, and half of it disappeared. Lucky I have a back up :) If you've seen the entire thing and it's disappeared, don't worry. It'll reappear in the morning. I'll get the hang of posting them eventually. ;)


	3. A Study in Self Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay for porn! 
> 
> John and Sherlock get it on, but are in for a surprise.

John's eyes flew open and his body jerked as if he'd been electrocuted. 

He suppressed the reflex to knock Sherlock's hand away (or maybe even punch him in the face), but just barely. He was glad that he hadn't. After all, he'd consented to all of this. 

It'd been a long time since he'd been touched there by anyone but himself...and now that he'd gotten over the shock, it felt very good. Fucking brilliant, actually.

John was quickly growing hard once more under Sherlock's touch, and he tried to relax his head back into the pillow. This was difficult considering his entire body felt as taut as a bowstring.

Sherlock's hand kneaded slowly up and down the length of John's cock through the material, keeping a steady and firm pressure. He gave a gentle squeeze to the head of it and John couldn't hold back a quiet moan. 

Sherlock hitched in his breath. Through the haze of pleasure, John heard it and turned to look at him. Sherlock was watching John's face through half-lidded eyes, his mouth slightly open, with the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

"Do you like that, John?" asked Sherlock. "Do you like having your cock in my hand? You do...I know you do," he breathed.

John couldn't answer. His mind was overloaded with sensation and his body was betraying him. His hands were clenching and trying to tear at the coverlet. His hips started rocking, and he found himself pressing his erection up into Sherlock's hand. Helpslessly straining to obtain more pressure and heavier strokes. 

Sherlock was breathing heavily now. Without warning, he ceased his actions and withdrew his palm. John nearly cried out with frustration. He was hard as stone now, his pulse thundering in his ears. His cock felt as though it might attempt a daring escape from the prison of his jeans and burst right through the zip. 

Sherlock leaned into his ear as he'd done in the foyer. When he spoke, his voice was deep and gravelly with lust. John could feel the vibrations from it against his skin. "Tell me what you want, John. Tell me..."

John felt a soft, wet lick to the shell of his ear and he almost came right then.

"Tell me, John. What do you _need_ ," breathed Sherlock. Another little lick. 

A high, whining noise escaped from John's lips. A noise that John didn't even think he'd been capable of creating. God knows, he'd never made it before. Then again, no woman had ever licked his ear before.

Sherlock gave it another hot swipe with his tongue, obviously knowing that John was enjoying it from the obscene noises he was making. John shut his eyes tightly and panted. He opened them after a few seconds and turned to look at his friend. His lover? Oh God.

Sherlock's icy eyes were wide now in the illuminating moonlight. His dark hair was a tousled tangle of curls. The veins and muscles and tendons of his neck and shoulders stood out, and John found this strangely erotic. He would never have found that sexy in a woman. 

Dear God, thought John. Neck porn. I'm into neck porn.

John couldn't take it anymore. His cock ached. It fucking _ached_. Without taking his eyes from Sherlock's, he snaked out his left hand and sought Sherlock's right one. His fingers closed over Sherlock's and John tugged it slowly over to his waist. So much for being calm under duress. John's hand was shaking like a frightened kitten.

John didn't break eye contact as he left Sherlock's hand resting on the buckle of his belt. Sherlock's tongue darted out to lick his lower lip as be began work on unbuckling it. When it was free, he tugged on the belt and slid it slowly from the loops. John surprised himself by lifting his hips off the bed to help him out. Sherlock tossed the belt on the floor and let his hand rest on John's stomach once more.

"Done," said Sherlock. "Surely that wasn't all that you wanted. What now, John?"

John's eyes widened as he blew out a frustrated breath. "What do you bloody mean, 'what now'? Aren't you the expert? Now would be a good time to show off your powers of deduction!"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Ah, the Captain is pulling rank. So demanding." He became serious again quickly. "John, I want you to _tell_ me what you want me to do to you. And I think you _want_ to tell me what you want me to do to you. You _need_ it. It's been a long time since you ordered anyone around. You miss it."

John was past the point of worrying whether he was gay, or whether he was bi, or what consequences this encounter might have in store for him in the morning. 

His cock was hard, he had a living, breathing sex partner, and he needed to get off. Sherlock was torturing the hell out of him, and he had a sudden image in his head of shutting Sherlock up by shoving his cock down his throat and stretching those full lips wide. 

Jesus, what a fucking vision. This time he let himself think about it.

John again grasped the tips of Sherlock's fingers and guided them in about an inch under the waistband of his jeans and left them there. 

Sherlock shuffled his body in closer to John's. He ground his erection into John's hip as he began to rub his fingertips in small, circular motions on John's skin just under the edge of the denim. 

"Hm...no boxers, John?" murmered Sherlock. "I wouldn't have guessed you'd go around without any kecks on," he smirked. "There's always something..."

"Sherlock." John was not above pleading now. "Please...just... _please_."

Sherlock's fingers dipped a little lower. John could feel them whisper lightly across the head of his cock. His hips vaulted off the bed. Sherlock's touch was electric.

"I like the way you say my name. Please what?" Sherlock growled. Another dip of the fingers.

John swallowed hard and croaked, "Please, touch my cock. Jerk me off. Do it. Do something. I can't fucking take it anymore..."

Sherlock groaned and put his mouth to John's neck. While he was licking and sucking, he popped the button on John's jeans and pulled down the zip. Sherlock's teeth grazed lightly on John's collarbone as his fingers finally wrapped around John's cock and freed it. 

John groaned as he felt a bite to the place where his neck met his shoulder, and he had to struggle not to come in Sherlock's hand immediately and embarrass himself like a 16-year-old kid.

Sherlock raised his head from John's neck and took his mouth in a fervent kiss. He stretched John's jaw wide with his slick tongue. Fucking John's mouth with it. John could feel it throughout his entire body, his toes curling uncontrollably.

Sherlock broke the kiss and looked down at what he was doing to John's cock. John followed his sightline and watched as Sherlock slid his fist up and down his length. Sherlock paused at the head every few strokes to swirl his palm over the tip. Each time he did this, the head of it got wetter and more slick. The sensation was amazing. 

Sherlock's strokes became harder and more steady and John thought that this was the hottest hand job he'd ever received in his life. Sherlock knew what John wanted. Was paying attention to what he liked. Most observant man in the world, indeed. John's breath was starting to come in short bursts, and he couldn't hold back his moans any longer.

Neither could Sherlock. With his free hand, Sherlock pulled down his bottoms and freed his own erection. He wasn't wearing any boxers underneath either.

Being in the military and out in the field, John had seen a lot of men naked and thought nothing of it. Sherlock naked...like everything else about the man, his cock was larger than life and made a strong first impression. John's eyes widened.

Sherlock caught this and grinned. "Just can't stop with the flattery, can you, John?" he laughed breathlessly. 

"I didn't say anything," John panted. He was surprised he was capable of speech.

"You didn't have to, your thoughts are transparent," smirked Sherlock. He let go of John's cock. "Don't worry, you know I enjoy it. Now, pull your jeans down."

John immediately complied and left them bunched around his knees. No hesitation at this point. 

Sherlock looked hard into John's eyes. He fisted John's cock once more and continued stroking. John didn't think he could last too much longer and closed his eyes to enjoy the pleasure. When they were on the staircase, he'd wondered what those long fingers would feel like on him, and now he was finding out.

Sherlock's hand was soft and dexterous. A violinist's hand. An intellectual's hand. With his eyes closed, John could almost pretend that it was a woman's. But he found he didn't want to.

Nor did Sherlock want him to. "Open your eyes, John. I want you to look into mine as I'm getting you off. I want you to see who it is that's making you come."

John opened his eyes and stared into Sherlock's. Sherlock really seemed to like it. His pupils were dilated, his kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. He was breathing heavily, his hips moving in synchronization with the hand on John's cock.

John suddenly realized how selfish he was being. He was receiving all of this pleasure and he was giving nothing in return. He'd always thought himself a generous lover, and here he was doing all the taking. If it had been fear holding him back from full participation, the fear was gone now. It was too late for that.

Without saying a word, John reached over and took Sherlock's cock in his own hand. Sherlock gave a short, sharp cry that was followed by a hiss of breath intake, and John thought that Sherlock had never looked so shocked in his life.

"You didn't think I could do it, did you?" growled John. He fisted Sherlock's cock and started sliding his hand firmly up and down the hard length. When Sherlock didn't answer, he gave a squeeze at the base of it. " _Did_ you?"

Sherlock moaned loudly. It was an obscene sound, coming from those lips. Sherlock didn't lose control very often, if ever. John discovered that he enjoyed forcing those sounds out of Sherlock. It gave him a sudden confidence that he didn't think he was capable of in this situation.

"Come on, Sherlock, not so chatty now are you?" he breathed. "Keep those strokes steady. I want you to make me come hard at the same time I make you spill all over my hand."

Sherlock's eyes flared with an intense heat. They were almost black now. He increased the intensity on John's cock as John did the same with Sherlock's.

John had never touched another man like this, so he tried things on Sherlock that he himself liked. It appeared to be working for him. Sherlock's hips jerked when John began to twist his hand around Sherlock's shaft on the upstroke.

Seemed the two of them had more in common than just love of danger. 

John could feel himself starting to lose control. He and Sherlock were both sweating, their palms slick on each other. Their foreheads were touching now as they curled into each other's bodies, stroking furiously.

"Come for me, John," gasped Sherlock. "Please, I want to feel you come."

Please. That was it. John shut his eyes and came so hard that he was sure that he was going to pass out. His grip tightened on Sherlock's cock and he heard Sherlock cry out and felt a sudden hot wetness all over the back of his hand and some on his chest. Fuck...John wondered how long it had been for Sherlock, for him to come like that.

They laid there unmoving, breathing heavily and saying nothing. John opened his eyes, and saw that Sherlock had his closed. 

John wanted to say something. He just didn't know what to say. Thanks for the hand? The thought made him laugh a little bit, he couldn't help it.

Sherlock cracked his eyes open. If they weren't already narrowed, John suspected he'd be doing just that. "You're giggling. What are you giggling about?"

John straightened his face. "Nothing. I'm not. Giggling isn't masculine."

"That was distinctly a giggle. And you're right, it isn't," said Sherlock. "Luckily, you happen to be lying naked in bed with a man covered in his bodily fluids. What could be more masculine than that?"

John's eyes widened and Sherlock started laughing. Which set John laughing. Maybe everything would work itself out somehow, thought John. Sherlock hadn't asked John to vacate his room as of yet. Maybe he wouldn't have to find a new place to live. Maybe he could pop out and get some Chinese take away and they could discuss things. That was a lot of maybes.

"Shh!" hissed Sherlock suddenly. His eyes flew open. "What the hell is that noise?"

John stopped laughing as well and listened. They must have looked a right sight, the pair of them. Half-naked and sticky, with their heads popped up listening for sounds like a pair of obscene squirrels. Almost set John to laughing again.

Sherlock leapt off the bed silently and disappeared into the toilet. He came out with a towel, cleaning himself off and replacing the waistband of his flannel bottoms. He tossed the towel to John, put a finger to his lips and padded to the door.

John finished cleaning himself off and quietly got up to join Sherlock, who had his ear to the door now.

They heard voices. Many voices.

"There it is," they heard a nasally male voice say. It sounded distinctly like Anderson's. "The case. He did have it!"

"Told you," said a female voice. This one sounded like Sally Donovan's. "We should arrest the freak the moment he walks through that front door."

"Shut it. Both of you." This voice was clearly Lestrade's. "Get to searching, you know why we're here. I just want to make a point, but you never know what he's got stashed away. You two start with the kitchen."

The kitchen was just down the hall from Sherlock's bedroom. John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes and he could see a muscle working in Sherlock's jaw, as if he was grinding his teeth.

John's eyebrows raised in a question. Sherlock shrugged and sniffed. He seemed to have made a decision about what to do. He threw his shoulders back, threw the door open, raised his chin and stalked out of the bedroom and down the short hall half-naked and smelling of sex.

John backed up against the wall next to the door and put his face in his hands. If people weren't talking before, they'd have reason enough to now. Forget moving out, he might have to leave the country.

He suddenly heard an angry shout from the kitchen and a short burst of laughter from Sherlock.

"Ah, Anderson," he heard Sherlock say. "I see you've found my bees."

**Author's Note:**

> I would appreciate all reviews and comments!
> 
> How many chapters I make this fic depends on how well the story is received. And the more chapters it reaches, the more explicit it gets. So if you like it, let me know!
> 
> Love you guys! *MWAH*
> 
> ~Stella


End file.
